Page 166 of My Sweet Dollie, You Have to Love Me
“Nine. He’s just lanky.”
“Oh, my god. Do things right, call his parents. I will fix his face, I will. I’ll do his stitches, but you have to call his parents,” she pleads, hanging off his arm.
Colin says nothing, and the silence unnerves me more than his voice.
“If you won’t do it, I will. I’m a doctor. I’m meant to help people. How do you expect me to just let this happen?”
“I expect you to respect your fucking husband.”
His dirty glove comes up, meeting her face. Her head bounces off the surface, and her blood splats in my direction before she falls to a pile on the floor. I jump then, and again, as his big clown shoe kicks into her stomach, and she winces. “His parents don’t give a shit about him. All they care about is the money they bring in selling books about their missing children. The documentaries and fundraisers. How much money do you think goes into finding the kids when they’ve known I’ve had them all along?”
Again, his shoe meets her stomach.
Out of my sight, she vomits. The sound of her stomach ejecting rings in my ears with the words that make mine try to do the same.
“His father is a detective—a skilled cop. The resources are there, even if he didn’t know where to find them.”
The taste of vomit stays on my tongue and burns in my throat as I force it back down.
Dad knew him. He planned this.
It can’t be true.
“They bought that fucking house, and there were so many issues. They needed so much money to fix it up.”
“They didn’t know they’d be treated like this,” his wife speaks, but her voice is different, owned by pain.
“Well, maybe not, but that’s on them.”
Tears fall as I blink.
Even if Dollie and I get out of here, we have nowhere safe to go.
Dropping from my seat, in a trance, I breathe hard as I land uncomfortably on my leg.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Colin snaps.
“She’s hurt,” I barely whisper, my lip trembling. I shouldn’t care, but I do. I’ve never witnessed anything like this. A man hitting the person he’s meant to love above all else. Dad has never hit Mom. Never even hit Mammy back in Ireland, and they argued all the time.
No, Dad doesn’t hurt his wife… just his kids, by letting this monster into our lives. That thought torments me, my blood running cold.
“Oh, so you wanna help my wife?” Colin nears me, that strong alcoholic scent burning my nose as I breathe him in. The bottle in his hand pointing at me. “That isn’t your job. She’s gonna help you. Get up on the table, and you, Barbara, get the fuck up.”
My eyes stay on her as she pushes herself up, tears dripping to the floor where those quirky glasses stay, the glass broken beyond repair.
“Get up on the fucking table!” Colin’s scream is for me and my delay. I do as he asks, trembling as I lie back against the cold surface, avoiding splatters of blood while anticipating stitches.
“He’d be better upstairs.”
My body stiffens at her words.
I can never go up there.
“What, where you left my mother to die? No. I’ll get your shit. You can do it here.” Colin’s stomping feet move off to the living room, taking the broken bottle with him.
His wife says nothing at my side as she sits on a high stool, head bowed and body trembling.
“He’s cruel to you,” I speak almost silently, trying to keep my voice too low for him to hear while also trying to stop my cheeks from flapping apart.
